In a perfect world, John Lennon would have been 70 years old today — a lovable old crank, I imagine, turning up at political rallies and cooking classes and half-jokingly telling the kids in Central Park to get off his lawn. But the world is not perfect, as we’re reminded on more or less an hourly basis, and instead, this year marks the 30th anniversary of Lennon’s murder.

(Incidentally, this also makes me realize I am now older than Lennon was when he was killed, and really, I’ve accomplished nothing. Not even one appearance on “The Ed Sullivan Show”. I need to make more of an effort.)

I’m off to New York shortly for a press junket, and there’s all sorts of stuff happening there to celebrate Lennon’s life, rather than his tragic, pointless death; I’m hoping to drop in on some of it. But I also know I’ll inevitably end up near the Dakota, along with thousands of other people who still can’t reconcile the vibrancy of his music with the Lennon-shaped hole in the world.

So it goes, right? See “not perfect”, above.